It
was in the old coaching days. A Border squire was going north, in the
coach, alone. At a village he was joined by a man and a young lady:
their purpose was manifest, they were a runaway couple, bound for Gretna
Green. They had not travelled long together before the young lady,
turning to the squire, said, "_Vous parlez francais, Monsieur_?" He did
speak French--it was plain that the bridegroom did not--and, to the end
of the journey, that remarkable lady conducted a lively and affectionate
conversation with the squire in French! Manifestly, he had only to ask
and receive, but, alas! he was an unadventurous, plain gentleman; he
alighted at his own village; he drove home in his own dogcart; the
fugitive pair went forward, and the Gretna blacksmith united them in holy
matrimony. The rest is silence.
I would give much to know what that young person's previous history and
adventures had been, to learn what befell her after her wedding, to
understand, in brief, her conduct and her motives. Were I a novelist, a
Maupassant, or a Meredith, the Muse, "from whatsoever quarter she chose,"
would enlighten me about all, and I would enlighten you. But I can only
marvel, only throw out the hint, only deposit the grain of sand, the
nucleus of romance, in some more fertile brain. Indeed the topic is much
more puzzling than the right conclusion for my Highland romance. In that
case fancy could find certain obvious channels, into one or other of
which it must flow.
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